


the creation of the antique albatross (noncanon pronouns)

by leafinsect



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: (of the robot variety), Coping, Disability, Functionist Bullshit, Gen, Gore, Medical Abuse, Mnemosurgery, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Robogore, Torture, Trauma, neurodivergence, neurodivergent character, shadowplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-20
Updated: 2008-01-20
Packaged: 2018-06-06 19:24:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6766735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leafinsect/pseuds/leafinsect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(and the rime of the Functionist reign.)</p><p>The Functionists are a persistent antagonist, but Rung is determined to outlast them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the creation of the antique albatross (noncanon pronouns)

**Author's Note:**

> Rung's pronouns are cie/cer/cers/cerself in this fic! [(canon pronoun version)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6752608)
> 
> **albatross** : figuratively, “burden” or “curse,” in reference to Coleridge’s 1798 poem “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” in which a sailor shoots an albatross and is forced to wear its corpse around his neck to identify him as the offender.

Crest of the helm, top of the head, back of the neck. 

Rung scratches at it, from the small of cer back to where cer neck meets the curve of cer helm, always in anxious moments, any real itch absent. The phantom touch feels sweet, like a tickle that makes cer ampullae ignite. That in itself is pain and the scratching, scratching, scratching feels like a band-aid remedy that nanites can’t fix. 

Going through school and opening a psychiatric practice was hard enough, millions of years ago. It wasn’t as if functionism, conceptually, didn’t exist before the rise of the Functionist-controlled senate. But although from the beginning Rung was an anomaly, cie was not always classified as an ornament. 

Poking and prodding was the introductory course. Rung came in once after being requested to, attempted to ignore the second summons, and was taken by force in the hundreds of instances that followed. “Force” meant several things coming from the Functionaries, in this instance: electrocution (which stings), inhibitor claws (a tad excessive), intimidation (not as powerful), and after a few pinpricks on the fourth visit, asking nicely.

First there was only a little bit of literal prodding, the lilt of a “please make yourself comfortable on the medical slab” (while we take you apart), the usage of hooks and scalpels and other tools used for carving a shell from a person. Pulling at joints and stroking the window to the spark, transformation seams, transformation cog, spark casing, crest of the helm, top of the head, back of the neck--

Rung didn’t predict the significance of their touch. Initially, they had always run their fingers from the back of cer head, all too gently, to cradle cer neck, all too eagerly.  
“Compliance code,” they called it. Different from “slave-coding,” which created a soulless thing lower than a disposable to exist at their beck and call. Ultimately, quite useless and too conspicuous. The Functionists valued subtle insidiousness as their chosen tactic. Most weren’t aware of their poisonous hand confining Cybertronian society in its grip, and those who were aware had been made aware. 

\--

The slab was somewhat cold under cer frame, but the tone of voice the experimenter used was frigid. They didn’t always take cer to the same room, and never used the same experimenter more than twice in a row, probably just to stay unpredictable and allow some semblance of what they thought was entertainment. Rung only ever saw staff at the Center, or at least, that’s what cer brain module told cer. 

Cie sighed at the thought, turning cer cheek to the slab’s surface and staring out of the sole window in the room, searching for truth in a reality that could be fabricated with a single invasion of cer neck wiring. Each visit involved “testing,” for why and how cie transformed into what cie did (wrong and abnormal), and each test was without clear meaning. 

The experimenter snapped their fingers for cer attention and began without preamble. “Transform, please. Slowly. Move this panel here--no, not that way, try.. hm. Try flipping it. Here,” The sudden shriek of cer vocalizer preceded the groan of metal near cer left shoulder bending unnaturally under their fingers. 

“That hurt,” Rung protested quietly, carefully watching cer phrasing to avoid the form of a request. Trying to ask things of them never ended well. Cie had to be careful with cer tone as well, since they usually ordered cer to stay quiet if cie started getting loud and frantic. 

“Apologies,” they muttered, likely with sarcasm and irritation at the noise, before exerting the same amount of force. They were trying to make Rung’s root mode suit their design. 

Rung unintentionally lapsed into begging. Cie would chastise cerself for it later, for giving in so early. The metal creaked slowly, and the small mecha shook. “N-no, no no no, please stop, p-please--” 

“You’re fine.” Another pull, aided by a hook-like tool of some sort, put new strain on cer transformation seams. 

“Please, I-I’m so sorry but it hurts--” cie pleaded, feeling cer optics leak at the pain and the apologies they didn’t deserve. 

“Stop speaking,” they said curtly. Rung sighed and shut cer intake abruptly, unable to resist following the order. There it was. Cie was surprised it took as long as it did for this experimenter to shut cer up. Cie turned cer head away from the other mecha’s face and took heavy invents, whimpering at the persisting ache. 

A wail erupted from cer vocalizer as adjacent plating was twisted crudely, without warning. The cry went past cer brain module; it was wordless and therefore permissible by the coding’s standards. The mecha blinked their visor exasperatedly in response. “Stop. Screaming.” More back plating was twisted, but this time met only with static and clicks from the bottom of Rung’s vocalizer. 

The bent panel in the worst shape clicked uncomfortably against the partially-transformed plating surrounding it. It felt wet, likely due to energon pooling between seams. Rung glared at the ceiling, venting shallowly through cer parted intake and trying to look as close to defiant as possible. Cie wanted to scream. Cie wanted to watch the experimenter claw at their audio receptors but more than that, cie wanted to encode the pain into a sensation that could process more easily and make cer feel less. 

The line of code in cer processor persisted. Cie settled for clenching cer fists and locking and unlocking cer joints. The experimenter didn’t smile at cer silence, and took out their laser scalpel. “Better.” 

\--

Visit forty-four was when Rung got cer backpack: false kibble that was really something of a scooter, if cie were to take it off. It was a peculiar convenience that cie decided to utilize, given cer worsening chronic pain. Although they kept summoning Rung for further tests, cie got the impression the Center was somewhat pleased with the ambiguity the visible wheel gave and, along the way, still frustrated with all the dead ends cer altmode was giving them. 

Rung didn’t know what made them decide this mnemosurgical step was necessary. It was as if they remembered that the cursed thing was there to hide cer nonsensical altmode, rather than help cer get around. The illusion was shattered if one was to see the mecha take kibble off of cer own back and use it like a separate mode of transportation. Wearing it made cer back pain worse enough that Rung forewent wearing it completely, when cie could. 

So it was the two hundred and sixty-third visit when Rung, weighed down by plating that was not cer own or anyone else’s, was laid down on the medical slab. The hand carefully cradling cer helm had a greater presence than the needles did when they entered cer neck. Cie would look back on it and wish cie could feel triumph over it being cer last mnemosurgery. 

The Center’s officials maintained saccharine smiles as they shooed Rung out of the building once they let cer know they were finished with cer for the time being. Cie never noticed anything different at first, but that was the fun part of the game the Functionists had created for cer. 

Cie stopped around the corner from the Center and without a second thought, unfastened the first clip that it took to remove cer backpack, only to start trembling--violently. All of a sudden cer frame had gone warm and cold at the same time and cer fans started up. Cer backpack dangled off of cer frame, last clip unfastened and the noise of it hitting the ground brought cer to cer knees. 

Cie was heaving on the side of the street, arms locking to support cer in place--when did cie get on the ground, why was cie on the ground?--and cie was sobbing in a panic, just before attempting to use a very usual method of travel. Realization dawned in a nauseating way as cie mindlessly reattached what felt like a part of cer frame. 

Cie curled up against the building, finding minimal comfort in the emptiness of the alley. It was impossible to see clearly through cer glasses; they had flooded with solvent in minutes. Thankfully the darkness in the late hour posed no danger, since the area surrounding the Center was usually patrolled by Functionaries, who detested impoverished homeless mechen and criminals only slightly less than taxonomic transgressors. 

The compliance coding was only in effect around a Functionist official who gave cer commands within the time span of six hours--Rung had counted--and cer joints would be in a perpetual state of dull ache, and every inch of cer plating would light up like a star map under UV light, but--

The only thing that rivaled the psychologically painful sensation were traumatic flashbacks. But even they were manageable; nothing was as instantaneously terrifying and panic-inducing as trying to take off cer backpack.

Rung took off cer glasses and wiped cer optics, letting the fluid run and finding solace in the blurring colors that were cer surroundings. _An induced traumatic response every time I try to take off the false kibble._ Cie touched the metal painted the same orange as the rest of cer and felt nothing. 

\--

Rung counted the duration of cer in- and exvents carefully, timing one longer than the other. _You’re in your habsuite,_ cie thought, optics shuttered, _on the Lost Light, and you’re safe._ There wasn’t a single hint of panic to be found in cer EM field, but preliminary grounding never hurt anyone. 

Invent, exvent. _You’re in your habsuite, and the Functionists are dead._ One clip, unclicking. Cie is the surviving martyr for the stragglers that outlived Functionist persecution. 

Another clip. Cer fingers twitch. _Take your time._ The thing on cer back is not the burden and it, conquerable, haunts no mechanism. Cie reaches around to unfasten a third clip near the small of cer back. 

Rung is the albatross, a curse on all of-Twelve and a death knell for anyone who dares think to resurrect their legacy. The last clip unfastens under still hands, and Rung’s backpack clatters to the floor, its wheel spinning absently. 

Cie can’t think to melt it down with scrap, or launch it out of airlock. Nothing so dramatic--or drastic, considering it took millions of years for cer to be able to take it off for more than a few minutes at a time. Cie had once briefly considered mnemosurgery to erase those lines of code and save cerself the separation anxiety-induced episodes, but decided gradual desensitization would be the best solution. 

It was. Rung kicks the backpack off to the side absentmindedly and sits down at cer desk, ready to go over cer notes and rebuild cer model of the second Ark.


End file.
